


Narcissistic cannibal

by Eicinic



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (just a part of one of the characters it's not the central subject of the fic), Disorders, Dubious Consent, Light D/s, M/M, Major Depressive Disorder, Slow Build, actually it's kinda cheesy, but surely it's not a happy fic either, i wouldn't classify this as angst, impersonal relationship, it the point, it's not as angsty as the tags suggest, low self-esteem issues, porn and more porn, raw stuff, they are all fucked up one way or another, tons of angsty porn, what would happen if bokuto wasn't the happy puppy we all know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-04-29 03:59:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5115023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eicinic/pseuds/Eicinic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>/ke i ji/ is low and shaky and needy and Bokuto is now grinding against the mattress, as desperate as him, all of the muscles of his back undulating with every sharp movement; Akaashi is about to reach his orgasm and he’s thinking he hears music every time the lights and shadows on Bokuto’s skin change with every thrust. Barely manages to clench his teeth and spit out between them<br/><i>“I want you"</i><br/>but he can’t bring himself to end it with /to love me/.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can’t write. But I’m stubborn, so here’s that.

 

 

> **Sievert** (Sv), is a derived unit of ionizing radiation dose in the International System of Units. It’s a measure of the health effect of low levels of ionizing radiation on the human body.

There are a few illustration of the Chernobil’s disaster in the book, next to a table of measurements. Keiji peeks without too much interest. There isn’t any risk of cancer until the exposition to, approximately, 100 mSv, when the natural exposition is 2,4 mSv. The aftereffects of subtle radiation exposure- around 50mSv- are there as well: vomits, fever, hemorrhages, infections, diarrhea…

“Akaashi. I brought coffee”.

Instead of looking up, he reaches out for the cup.

“What would happen if people emitted radiation over 50mSv?”

The other doesn’t reply. It’s not necessary.

_Akaashi already knows the answer._

 

* * *

 

 

 _“We are stronger in the places that we’ve been broken”_.

ERNEST HEMINGWAY

 

The silence precedes the soft drizzle falling on the city. The neon lights of the room are switched on, despite being around 10 in the morning. There’s a guy with his head buried between his bag and a pile of books, next to another one, who seems focused on his phone. Both of them are the most interesting thing that has happened during the morning, so Keiji slides his gaze upon them a couple of times before jumping to conclusions. The tall, asleep guy, could be either too extroverted or too comfortable around the other to ignore him and take a nap. The other, however, flicks his eyes constantly to the room and, later, to his partner. There is something ironic in the way both bodies seemed to keep the distance, and, at the same time, there isn't any distance between them. Could both of them be his classmates? In case they are, Keiji is sure he would have remembered the weird hair of the tallest guy and his appearance of crawling through the streets at night too often, and the need of the other to disappear, jointly the moody hair after which he tries to hide wholeheartedly.

Nevertheless, they are two parts that pull each other off balance and then stay in balance together, enough as to make the one who wanted to hide kind of be in the spotlight, and the one who stands out more, find shelter in the gravity of the other.

The drizzle hit more insistently the windows, the bark of the rain deafening their heavy breaths and the quick tapping of small fingers on the cell. After five minutes re-reading the same page without retaining anything, Keiji decides to give up.

His life to this exact moment has been a grey misery, reflection of the day through the high glasses, the sempiternal winter lingering on the city, the tall buildings made of iron and concrete. A monotonous and prisoned life, day-by-day, year-by-year. Higschool- not even preparatory- didn't bring a change. The living _slow_ of the teenagers only made him fall in lethargy, a constant wish for the day to finish soon to lock himself in the room, bury himself under the blankets

and not dream of anything.

Nothing changed when he moved to the campus, studying a career he doesn’t remember most of the days, looking at the books or at the screen of his computer, forcing his over-analytical mind to give up, to stay blank, to stop asking _why_. Why society is so similar to a cattle guided by shepherds, [if shepherds aren’t part of the mass themselves]; what leads him to ask, frequently, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?

Sometimes, closing his eyes resembles way too much to fall even deeper in himself. In routine, in the emptiness, waking up and experimenting a life that doesn’t change, a city only conformed by buildings with people inside, unprotecting himself, crumbling down all of his barriers, waiting.

Sometimes, the absolute exposure to the world is another façade.

Another wall.

And, then, only because it is Wednesday at 10:35 in a rainy day of November, the door of the study room opens,

 

> _and the atmosphere changes._
> 
>  

* * *

 

 

“ _There is no hunting like the hunting of man”._

ERNEST HEMINGWAY

 

>   ** _Danger_**

Danger, danger, danger, Keiji hasn’t changed his pace, expressionless as ever, but his fingers are white from the pressure on the folder he’s holding, his shoulders are tensed, and he’s keeping a fight with himself trying not to break his apparent calm and start running. Since the study room two days ago, someone has been following him through the campus.

This is not the first time he’s dealt with this, but, somehow, he hoped there wouldn’t be any more after the last one. Kids are cruel, after all. However, that thing that is compressing his stomach and pumping his blood and pleading him _run run run RUN RUN_ doesn’t feel like anything experienced before.

Keeping his cool, Keiji considers his options. He can do the same as the first time he noticed he was being followed: enter a random lecture and try to sidetrack his chaser by getting out of the room thanks to the professor’s door next to the podium. Or maybe the same as the second time, irrupting in the feminine bathroom and getting out of the building thanks to the window. Maybe he should stop walking, face whoever is following him and put things under control again. He truly doesn’t like confrontation, but probably his pursuer won’t stop until Keiji deals with this situation, so he turns right in the next corridor, walking to an empty part of the floor, slowing down his pace, forcing his breath to go in and out, repeating incessantly in his mind he’s not a kid anymore, he can deal with this, maybe the guy following him only wants to talk, maybe he’s too shy to talk, maybe he’s just a little weird…

Anyway he has reached the end of the corridor. There’s an iced breeze coming from the narrow, open window over the lockers, raising goosebumps on his skin

or maybe it’s the tension

his lips are parted, his lungs are asphyxiating

or maybe it’s the tangled heart

he’s already turning on his heels when a solid body collides with his and corners him directly against the wall, squeezing all of the oxygen out of him, and, just a second after, a hot breath on the back of his uncovered neck sends a tremor to all of his bones. Two sudden hands rest against the wall at both sides of his head, a body far from his but not enough as not to feel the _radiating_ heat.

Keiji has been haunted for days, chased through the corridors, stalked by an imminent threat now almost breathing his skin, and he’s feeling all the cells in his body vibrate, shiver, Keiji pants

he’s been _haunted_

and something has to be wrong with him because the sudden tightness of his jeans screams _I don’t care_ and _/more/._

After a few short breaths, he finally manages to turn back, now facing a pair of eyes very open, terribly focused on him, absorbing. The rest of the corridor disappears from his sight when those eyes attract all of his attention. The guy who’s cornering him is not a stranger, Keiji’s positive he’s seen him around in the café and maybe in a few morning lectures. And, definitely, he was the guy who entered in the study room two days ago. It’s difficult to forget the sharp angle of his eyebrows, followed by streaked hair styled in some resemblance to a crest, or maybe horns, and a deep undercut.

 

 

> Fe 
> 
> ~~_(fascination)_ ~~
> 
> ar

“Akaashi. Keiji”. If the alluded was waiting for something, that, definitely, wasn’t it. The deliberate slow slide of the tongue spelling his name sends a new shiver down his spine; electricity, adrenaline, crawling their way to his lower abdomen.

Keiji obligates to keep a deadpanned expression.

“First year student of psychology, lives on campus, doesn’t have any friends, doesn’t come back home on weekends, doesn’t have any extracurricular activity”.

He’s digging his nails in his palms, locking his eyes in the other’s and pleading, _praying_ , they will stay like this and nobody will notice the erection he can’t hide in his too tight jeans or in the t-shirt that barely reaches his waist.

Prays, hides the tremor in his hands, the tremor in his guts, the anticipation, his dry mouth, taking a shaky breath, swallowing the lump in his throat and licking his lips. He’s not going to throw up, he’s not going to throw up. Suddenly the guy is even closer, or maybe the space between them has changed, the heat burns his skin as much as the breath of the other, and,

despite how frightening this situation is,

he challenges him.

 

Keiji raises his chin, and challenges him.

 

He’s never been expressive. There has never been a display of emotions in his features, however, they have been always there. In the tensed line of his mouth, or in the straightened back or maybe in his eyes, or in his whole body screaming

 

**_devour me now or I’ll do it first_ **

 

And the guy seems to understand the language of his body better than any word, because his eyes are now volcanic, _radioactive_ , all of his skin vibrating and communicating and Keiji is trapped, _trapped_

_trapped trapped_

He doesn’t find his own voice. Both of their legs are dangerously close, the overwhelming arousal and the constant blood flowing to his crotch find Keiji separating his hips from the wall, lightly touching the other’s knee,

this shouldn’t be as exciting as it is,

 _even if he’s challenging him with his eyes he’s pleading him with his body_ and, one or two seconds later the distance between them has disappeared, Keiji’s erection now evident against the leg of the white-haired guy.

He opens his mouth, to protest _this is sexual harassment_ , but only a strangled pant comes out.

All the alarms in his mind pop out at the same time with the desperate _please go away please go away please go away_ but his legs are entangling with the other’s, his hands are searching for something to cling onto and Keiji has to bite his lips to refrain the asphyxiated sounds trying to scape when experienced fingers unzip his jeans and touch his exposed hips.

He hasn’t given his consent he hasn’t even talked to this guy in his entire life they’re in a public space what is happening why is this happening why is Keiji not running why does he _desire_ this to happen what if the guy wants to hurt him what if he’s dangerous

but what if this is just something _different_

he’s never been this focused before, not since he can remember

and the air escapes from his lungs as an asphyxiated moan when those hands that doesn’t seem to know gentleness close in a fist around his length. Shame.

Shame, shame, shame

the pounding pulse

shame

steps in the distance approaching

sham-

The strong squeeze make his hips jerk, searching for more friction, and he has to steady himself in the other’s shoulders, pleading his knees won’t give up now, burying his face in his neck and watching that rough hand pump his length in a constant rhythm.

“Who… are you…” Keiji manages to spit out between his closed teeth, breathing deeply the scent of the other, feeling dizzy, absolutely aroused, wanting to die as much as wanting the building of his orgasm to last forever, feeling the muscles under his palms tense and move, trying to keep his eyes open to see if someone approaches, feeling himself fall

fall

fall

_fall_

until the guy snarls, low and primitive: _Bokuto Koutarou_ and holds him in place, a strong arm behind his legs and lifting him slightly from the floor.

Keiji’s head is spinning as quickly as he’s climbing the high, panting, shivering, meeting the guy’s fist with his own hips,

shame

shame shame shame

pathetic

He’s getting a handjob from a stranger in a public space and he

_Likes it_

 

 

> _And wants_ / **more** /

_More more more more_

Keiji chokes in an intake of breath while coming, harder than ever, spilling in the guy’s hand, scratching the back of his neck almost desperately, until he comes down from the high and all the tension, fear, fascination, dissolve with the sudden tiredness and regret that dominates his body.

Then, the guy is lowering his mouth to rest it on Keiji’s neck. Words spelled slowly, carefully, holding a threat Keiji’s sure he shouldn’t listen, but he’s never been one to back down to any menace.

“You will come to the gym tomorrow at 5 pm. I guess you don’t want people to know how dirty you are… ” 

and with that Keiji was left there, with his jeans unzipped, his boxers wet, and his whole body on fire.

 

There’s only one thing in his mind:

bokuto koutarou

bokuto koutarou

bokuto koutarou

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> / sweats im sorry about the dense narrative...? it won't change in next chapters... and i'm sorry if some parts are kinda confusing?? im struggling a lot with building sentences in english and trying to accommodate them to Akaashi's voice / lies down; and... urm... i write in experimental narrative...? so the punctuation is kind of... shitty!!! (THANK YOU SO MUCH PIXIE AWESOME INCREDIBLE BETA and all the people who have encouraged me to post this!!!)


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

_“The aura given out by a persona or object is as much a part of them as their flesh”._

LUCIAN FREUD

32, 33, 34, 35

The skin of his hands is starting to peel off but it’s not enough _not enough_ he wishes he could tear it off it would be better that way _he has to rip out the dirt_ erase it erase him

after scrubbing his hands 42 times with the scourer Keiji turns off the faucet and clings onto the sink. He refuses to look at himself in the mirror because only regret is going to stare back. He’s hating himself, he’s trying to block all the memories of the last day from his head, but the thoughts assault him _chase_ him his hands _don’t bleed enough_ yet, that hurting him is _guilt_ and he’s looking at his skinned fingers thinking in how many times he’s washed his hands during the day and still can’t peel off the wet heat crawling under his skin every time the sensations of the last day return to him

or rather _don’t go away_

how could he, how could he, how could he, how could he

It can’t be that bad, Keiji tried to convince himself, it can’t be that bad, the guy was, all in all, attractive. The intensity of his eyes, his well-built body, even his odd looks... Moreover, don’t people make out all the time? Why couldn’t he do it?

_Because you usually don’t get a hard-on when you’re being_ **haunted**

That was the key of the question. He hasn’t even crossed words with the stranger, and it’s not like the context can explain the situation. Objectively, it was sexual harassment. Sexual harassment for two days, or maybe more, considering the amount of information the guy had about him. The only conclusion left was

_Bokuto Kutarou is fucked up_

  
but wasn’t Keiji himself even _more_?

 

He’s skipped classes. Running into him in the corridors is the last thing in his list of priorities. Barely ate something from the vending machine and locked himself in his room.

Beneath the confusion and shame there’s an emotion a lot bigger Keiji doesn't want to name but it is there, _eating him_ alive, like a _cancer_ , as if he exposed himself for too long to ionization and couldn’t really say _it was a mistake_

_it wasn’t_

Keiji rubbed himself on the other’s legs, all of his body pleading for more to a guy he doesn’t know, that could be dangerous, that threatened him, so this feeling eating him alive can only be called _fear_

Keiji tensed his lips to a straight line, pressed himself against the wall of his bedroom and understood 

 

 

> fear of himself

  
the loss of control of his own body,

  
_Bokuto Koutarou_ , each minute and second in his mind.

Two hours before the deadline he’s burying his face in his flexed knees, forcing his breath to go in and out of his lungs. He has dealt with worse things, he says, but it’s a lie. Sure, there were situations more painful than this one, but not as distressing. Fear of himself, he repeats, and knows that the reasoning of the last 18 has been an excuse for not blaming himself for his own acts, but the owlish guy.

With shaky fingers he unlocks his phone to google about kinks, maybe his mess is not as screwed up as it seems. He gets turned on by violence and threat, okay, so what. Maybe he likes sado, so what.

The research doesn’t last even ten minutes and Keiji is throwing his phone on the bed and burying his head again in his arms. He’s not like this. He’s not like this. He’s not l-

He has to stop it, he has to go to the gym and... and what. Go there _why_. He can, simply, not go. Probably the whole university will know he likes to be harassed in public, and, well, sure he can live with it. People will mind their business as time goes by, and it’s not like he’s the first one gambling with public exhibitionism. Whoever is without sin, cast the first stone, or so is said.

 

 

However, the idea of not going feels unsettling. If he wants to know why the stranger seems to have an obsession with him, locking himself in his room is not going to provide him the answer. Hiding sure is not going to solve the problem, either.

A quarter of an hour before five and he’s trying not to shuffle through the corridors, wrapping his uneasy body tighter in his coat, reminding himself once and again his actions are his and only his, he’s the owner of himself. His trembling legs doesn’t agree with him, anyway.

Keiji obliges to lock his eyes on the floor he’s walking and prays for his mind to leave him alone, if only for a few seconds.

That’s not how it works. Being him is pretty much like sinking in the deep, dark, cold waters of the ocean [emptiness], and, sometimes, _asphyxia_. The never-ending battle of his brain pleading to give up and his lungs struggling to keep his whole body functioning with the last intake of oxygen. Now, he can hardly focus on anything but Koutarou’s face, once and again once and again once and again, as the times he has scrubbed his hands

_once and again once and again_

 

 

 

> _aren’t yellow the eyes of the wolves?_

 

The rustle of the trees by the iced breeze mute the sound in his head. Keiji looks up as the wet small drops of dew land on his face and hair, closing his eyes and, during a brief instant, giving himself to the cold sensation damping his skin. The world is big and distant.

Then, the bubble of timelessness is broken as the realization weighs on him: he’s not alone. Slowly he faces the gym and Koutarou’s there, boring holes in him with such intensity Keiji feels small and meaningless again, for different reasons. The guy is standing, but the skyline of his shoulders is uneven and he’s sliding his palms up and down his thighs, switching his weight from one leg to another lightly. It doesn’t seem a nervous tick, so, maybe, Keiji deduces, it’s just a habit. Despite the cold air, he has his neck and arms uncovered, and the dark-haired finds himself following the shape of the muscles before the tension he’s been feeling since yesterday hits his lower body like a hammer, forcing him to bite his lips to refrain the strangled noise menacing to come out of his throat.

There’s something in the way Koutarou seems to shrink and shift his weight, as if the skin he’s wearing is too big to suit him, or as if he was just a kid trying to find the place for him in this world, and suddenly the tension in his abdomen is different and sweat starts to wet the back of his neck. Shivering inside the winter coat, he walks the distance between them.

At some point, the intention of asking _why_ is forgotten in some corner of his mind, his vocal chords unable to form any coherent sound as they walk side by side inside the building, their hands brushing occasionally here and there, his stomach flinching at the sudden contact and the pressure of his blood changing to rush back to his heart, his legs barely supporting him.

The owlish guy opens the door of the locker room and waits.

Keiji doesn’t want to enter. _Shouldn’t_ enter, actually. Maybe turn back on his heels and start running; maybe there’s still time to go away. However, the guy has a dangerous stance and his arms are more than enough to crush someone's bones.

_You’re here for a reason_ he reminds himself _he's_ _just a person_

but precisely because he's just a person

anyway he’s already in the room

when did this happen

 the breath of the other ghosts over his neck raising goosebumps in his skin, suddenly the knot in his stomach drop downs to his lower abdomen or shoots up to his chest, it’s not that clear, but it surely can be named _expectation_ and when Keiji turns to face him

 

Koutarou’s gravity swallows him again. There’s nothing else in that room that the man standing in front of him, with his shoulders uneven again, as if he had never learnt how to straighten up properly, the eyes terribly focused on him _devouring him_ and his body is already disobeying the order of remain immobile, getting closer, wanting to _burn_ in the promise of those bright golden eyes, in the rough hands that the other day were jacking him off, wanting more, wanting everything.

Keiji stops abruptly, all of sudden hyperaware of how he has scratched the centimeters separating them, his pulse loud and annoying in his ears,

“why”

he asks himself, although he says it out loud. The other tilts his head, but doesn’t answer.

A pause.

“I don’t care about the whole student body knowing what happened yesterday.... I just came to tell you that”, a brief hesitation, “bye, Bokuto-san”.

But he can’t reach the door. Koutarou is blocking the way. They are barely touching each other but Keiji can already feel the shape of the other’s body against his own. He _digs_ it

and it’s _scary_

“I guess you don’t mind that much the world’s opinion over your private life” he rasps like a shotgun and the pang of tension in Keiji’s lower abdomen increases. “You don’t seem too motivated about your career either so...” Koutarou’s even closer than before   _not enough_ he’s having problems in focusing again, his mind spiraling down B _okuto Koutarou Bokutou Koutarou Bokut_ “you are doing this for your family”.

His whole body goes still, staring at the owlish guy in disbelief as if he just punched him.

“Why”, he repeats, slower, not to himself this time. Instead of replying, Koutarou corners him against the lockers, Keiji’s breath hitching in his throat as he gets down on his knees, unzipping his jeans with shaky fingers and thumbing the soft skin of his now exposed hips.

Keiji panics.

Why, why, why him, why him of everybody has to deal with this, why the person in front of him kneeling down seems even more confused and insecure than him, and, however, the moment he looks up to Keiji’s face his eyes are deep black swallowing holes

Keiji’s dragged and dragged and dragged, dragged by those thumbs shaking over his skin but still roaming the shape of his hipbones and the hem of the boxers, dragged by the following bite in the most tender part of his thighs, eliciting a pant and a huff, his own hands betraying him when his fingers tug at the strands of white and black hair.

After a quiet pause and Koutarou’s face getting closer to his crotch, Keiji hears a whisper: “You can do it.”

“ _You can fuck my face_ ”.

His legs twitch and he has to force himself backwards to balance his body from falling. He breathes shakily and probably confessing his mistakes at this point won't make a change. Still, he's praying for his soul not to go straight to hell. It kind of feels like he has the hell _inside_ , anyway. Akaashi hides his face behind his hand, trying to cool himself down, trying to rationalize what his whole body is pleading him. It’s not easy, even less when Koutarou’s fingers caress the back of his thighs, and, slowly, invasive, starts mouthing him through the fabric.

Keiji hates himself. His insides are burning in what he names hate, _hate hate hate_ , denying it has something to do with Koutarou’s lips wrapping around the head of his erection, forcefully oblivious to the heat in his gut incinerating him with every swirl of tongue and every touch of fingers, not allowing himself to give in to the sensation. However, his hips are already pushing into Koutarou’s mouth

 

 

**more**

_more, more_

he’s _hungry_

  

Koutarou frees his strained erection, licking his lips before swallowing him, slowly, until his throat doesn’t allow more. He looks up briefly and bobs his head at a sluggish pace, still lingering his warm palms on the back of Keiji’s thighs, humming automatically when the latter shudders, as if his own body was settled to react immediately to any kind of response.

Keiji tries his best. He truly does. But his concentration is slowly drifting away, all the thoughts reduced to the heat, the wetness, the rough calloused hand pumping his length lazily accompanied by the occasional careful scrape of teeth, the steady floor under his feet, how his coat is too heavy on his shoulders, it’s an uncomfortable, itchy feeling, the soft tips of the white hair between his fingers before Keiji drags his nails softly over the scalp and grips tightly Koutarou’s broad shoulders, the muffled moan he gets in response sending a twitch directly to his crotch. The muscles under his palms tense constantly and create a rhythm easy for his mind to fall in...

Koutarou swirls his tongue around the slit and Keiji groans breathlessly, wondering briefly why he’s not falling since his knees don’t support him and then

_oh_

Koutarou’s holding him

“ _ffuc-hh_ ”

No coherent sound comes out of his mouth before he’s driving his hips deeper in Koutarou’s throat, forgetting why he’s here and even who he is, only digging his nails harder, throwing back his head and exhaling all of his breath in a slow, mute cry that leaves his chest aching and his throat dry as he’s coming, muscles clenched and eyes shut, his mind blank for the first time in the last 48 hours.

The next thing he’s conscious of is Koutaoru wiping his lips and doing his jeans again. The realization of what they just shared strikes Keiji, as painful and repetitive as the pounding of the heartbeat against his ribs, everything returning to his mind, blinding him, leaving him gaping without words.

“I’ll see you here this Monday at the same hour”

and with that, just with that, he’s left here in the same state of disarray as the last time,

his mind spiraling down

 

 

>   
>  _bokuto koutarou_

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

  

“ _There was never an apple, in Adam’s opinion, that wasn’t worth the trouble you got into for eating it_ ”.

NEIL GAIMAN

 

Keiji has been scribbling the same word in his essay for the last ten minutes, his vision blurred and his head trying to throw in thirty different thoughts at the same time, his hand moving rabidly along the lines of a creased paper, dirty with the ink of SICK written four hundred times already

four hundred and one

four hundred and two

fou

“Hey”.

Keiji doesn’t really hear anything besides the furious thoughts in his mind back and forth, his headache increasing, increasing, increa- “Hey!”

It’s louder this time and it startles him, shock widening his eyes lightly when he sees Bedhead sitting on the turned chair in front of him, arms resting over the back of it, chin on top of them, brows high in his face, quickly tapping on the floor with his right foot. His hair is crazier than the last week, Keiji appreciates, and there’s no hint of boredom or tiredness in his eyes, just an overwhelming and eerie focus on him.

Keiji breathes, dominating his expression and slowly pulling the paper away from him under the cover of the book, clearing his throat to attract the other’s attention to his face instead of the movement of his hand, feeling the pang of panic at being discovered triggering a sharp distress in his stomach.

The guy doesn’t comment on it, in fact, he doesn’t comment on anything. Keiji forces a faint yes? which is welcomed with a slow grin.

“Blondie back there” the stranger signs over his shoulder to the guy who’s hiding himself deeper in the hoodie he’s wearing, “wants to know if you play games”.

“That’s a lie”, the alluded is barely whispering but Keiji can still hear him despite the empty tables separating them. They are the only students in the study room, nothing new. He’s been too focused on himself for the last days to really notice the rising curiosity of Bedhead and Blonde on him through the week, which leads to the uncomfortable situation happening right now.

Cautiously, Keiji analyzes the nervous tick of Bedhead’s leg and his wide cocky smile, a second later Blonde, nose buried in his gaming device but eyes flickering now and then to him, full aware of his surroundings. The smaller guy doesn’t look like he wanted to know if Keiji plays games, so making the first move had to be Bedhead’s idea. Bedhead, who’s know pointing at Blonde again and smiling an _oh don’t you wanna make him? Don’t you wanna take him home?_

Keiji opens his mouth to reply, perplexed, but Blonde’s faster, throwing his pencil case at his friend with crazy sharpshooting, making him crackle a laugh that sounds like a hyena, Keiji lowering his gaze to look at the very interesting table and consider all the options he has to scape from this situation without rudeness.

“ _Kuroo. Tetsurou_ ” hisses the small guy, “if you quote Blondie again you’re sleeping in the trash the rest of the week”.

“He’s not woofin, you better take his word”, says Bedhead seriously “or _you can go insane and out of your mind_ ”.

Blonde groans.

 

  
Keiji learns a few things that day:

  * Kuroo Tetsurou listens to Blondie just to piss his roommate off [think about the _puns_ , he said]
  * Blonde was, indeed, interested in Keiji
  * Both of them were way better than him at any game they tried later that afternoon.



 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stray 1 strikes in /// what do i write how do i write we just don't know (all the love to my beta who's here getting mixed up to her brows in this shit w me, love u ma girl). I have a very vague idea of the third chapter so.... i... dunno, i'll try to update next saturday!!! you've been very kind to me guys, nobody kicked my ass yet- _yet_ \- so thank you so much!!! Y'ALL AWESOME / smooches all of you aggressively


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dom (@domxto) drew this fucking awesome fanart for this fic which summarizes absolutely their relationship and i am crying all over again and dying http://oi63.tinypic.com/ay6deb.jpg

_People don’t want their lives fixed. Nobody wants their problems solved. Their dramas. Their distractions. Their stories solved._

_Their messed cleaned up. Because what would they have left? Just the big, scary unknown._

CHUCK PALAHNIUK

 

Every time Koutarou drops on his knees, Keiji thinks of religion.

 

The bad days always start with three phone alarms and the sun already high in the sky. And the emptiness. As much as Keiji pleads for his head to stop spinning, the lack of sound is _frightening_. In these days where his bones weigh that much, getting up from bed is nonsense. He turns off the last alarm ignoring the message that pops in the screen _waking up sometimes is just enough for the day_ rolls on his side and stares at the wall.

He still remembers the times where he tried to talk about this, years ago, when there were enough words to describe that the world he shoulders is dragging him down, and allowing himself to be buried under it seems more natural than fighting it. Then, he just stopped talking.

Although he has a pang of sorrow stuck in his chest, an absence he can’t explain, often covered by repeating once and again that he’s better alone. That he needs space, the bad day will pass and probably tomorrow or the next day he will wake up and attend classes.

maybe solitude is not the need but the /habit/ of the body

and the annoying pain in his chest aggravates and itches in his eyes. Keiji doesn’t remember the last time he cried, but he’s more or less sure it rains inside him every day.

Often during the week he tries to remember something distinctive from the last months. Nothing. He’s been living day-by-day automatical-

 

 

 

> _Bokuto_.

Bokuto and his shaky fingers barely touching Keiji’s hips, slowly and surely inch by inch, at some point shrugging his shoulders multiple times as if trying to slack them, habit Akaashi has quickly learnt to recognize as a nervous tick. His even more shaky breath ghosting over his flesh, unsteady as if he was forcing himself to breathe, and, then, the fleeting peeks through the long eyelashes, fast enough to be unnoticed.

Every time they meet, Koutarou takes more, and more time. If Keiji wasn’t so entranced by the mouth trailing dry kisses along his thighs he would have thought Koutarou was nervous, delaying second by second the time to pull out his length and swallow it, glancing up instead every now and th

Keiij’s attention snaps back abruptly to the present when a loud hit echoes in the room.

“You did that on purpose”.

“I should be the one hacking off you’re going to screw up my record if you don’t stop getting killed, pickle fucker”.

“I don’t _get killed_ ”.

“Don’t be squinny”.

Kuroo tries to ruffle Kenma’s hair, who avoids him with a tiny hiss. The next thing he’s trying to avoid is a finger picking at his nose.

“You’re incredibly childish, get off”

“Don’t get killed”

“I am not getting killed!”

Kenma pauses the game to stab Kuroo with his glare, the guy flashing him a bright, almost innocent smile.

“Well now that you’ve decided to allow me to win, why don't you move the buttocks to bring us tea from the kitchen?”

Kenma answers with a huff, throwing out his friend’s legs from his lap and standing up. Kuroo tries kick his ass earning a quick slap, a frown and an aggressive display of teeth.

“You’re wicked blud!”

“Go to hell”

“Crybaby”

“Dickhead, _literal”_ comes across the distance, muffled. Kuroo gasps in horror but his smirk grows wider as he turns around to face Keiji, sitting on the floor. There’s a brief pause between them.

“Kenma doesn’t change when you bum around”. Keiji feels himself blink and tilt his head, waiting for something else, but Kuroo’s done. He feels _tested_ , and he doesn’t like it. At the end, he averts his gaze and mushes a quiet _I’m glad._ The taller guy is harder to decipher than the small one. Despite Kenma looking like an impregnable wall, his expression hardly changing, his whole body has its own language not too difficult to understand. Kuroo is different. He’s all teasing tones and contained expressions covering one hundred different facets.

The raven male smacks the back of his neck, playfully, to snap him out of his track of thought.

“C’mon you’re zonked, sit on bed. ‘Sides the floor seems cold”. It is cold, indeed. But Keiji starts to think it isn’t the floor or the weather, he just carries the autumn inside. Quietly, he takes a seat on one extreme of the bed while Kuroo makes himself comfortable again, stretching his spine with a sonorous clack and messing around with Kenma’s assignments sprawled out all over the mattress.

“Don’t mind him” Kenma says, carrying in three mugs of warm tea, “he doesn’t understand the concepts of privacy, decency and personal space”

“I dunno why would you say that” replied his partner with a sarcastic smile, rubbing Keiji’s arm friendly and lazily to warm him up. Kenma arches his brows, skeptically.

“You’re making him uncomfortable, stop that”.

Before Keiji can open his mouth to say he’s fine and appreciated the gesture, Kuroo wheezes out a raspy ugly laugh.

“You are one to talk! Listen, last time I dragged this arseholed here, he insisted in sleeping bollock nakie ‘cus, quot-

Kenma lurches himself forward clapping both hands over Kuroo’s mouth, but he just struggles with him a little before freeing himself and finishing:

QUOTE: my trunk is sick better than my grill you should wake up to it everyday”.

The smaller blushed so hard Keiji could feel the heat across the mattress.

“You bloody motor-mouth. I don’t talk like that crap that comes out of your mouth and fortunately my ass also looks better than your face”.  

Kuroo’s teasing expression dropped instantaneously to stare at his friend dead in the eye

“yes it does”.

And with this, Kenma is knocked off, thrown aside and stepped over. He tries to come up with a reply but only opens and closes his mouth, Kuroo no longer paying him attention. He’s cursing his equipment in the game instead.

“C’mon Cinderella don’t make you prince wait, these fucking jerks are chaffing me”.

“Stupid frog”. Kuroo elbows him in the side with woofy grin that masks a _beat them brains out Blondie_ and the alluded huffs a _don’t call me that._ Despite his annoyed expression Keiji can see the _glow_ in Kenma’s eyes, how he’s scooting closer to Kuroo’s arm cautiously, how all of him just _sparks with life_.

He doesn’t feel that cold anymore.

Kuroo and Kema have been around all week, or maybe Keiji started to notice them more in his efforts to drift his eyes anywhere but the guy with spiked hair who happens to share almost two lectures with him every day. They usually eat in the café with other three guys. Sometimes Kenma walks in, spots a very tall, blonde guy and turns on his heels to walk away as fast as possible. Kuroo just laughs at him, and it’s always like he’s breaking his chest to force his laugh out.

Eventually, they’re in the study room. They also seem to be the only ones who know that classroom is specifically open for students to find a place to quietly study out of their dorms or the library. It was pretty much their fort. Until Keiji came in. It made sense to him, now, the interest both of them had in the skinny, quiet and burnt-out guy since the first moment, considering they cross paths more than six times per day.

And so does Koutarou, who seems to be opportunely close to Keiji practically all the day. Even if he hopes Kuroo and Kenma haven’t noticed him, he’s not really a dreamer. It’s difficult not to _look_ at Koutarou he just _swallows you_. His presence is a constant weigh in Keiji’s mind, distracting him, eating him even when he’s forcing his mind shut, to the point where he manages to slide out of bed and first thing he’s doing as he’s entering in the lecture is searching in the crowd for the owlish guy.

He doesn’t approach him.

Niether does Koutarou.

Apparently he agreed to some sort of contract to trade sexual favors for nothing, under coercion. Still, he considers, and hates himself for it, _is it_ coercion _anymore?_ He goes to the gym on his own will, watching carefully the hours and minutes and seconds go by until their meeting, counting as well the steps that separate one building from the other, the trees clearing the way, the black streaks in Koutarou’s hair, the faint shadow of freckles on his nose, his fingers, his moles…

Koutaoru has nice hands, he observes one day as the guy is slowly stroking his sides up and down, yet on his feet. Wide fingers, wide palms and always very, very warm. Keiji wonders, in a whisper in the back of his head, would the rest of his body _be this warm?_ He touches him and he _burns._ It can’t be that bad to die incinerated if he always aches for _more_.

And then, he fears.

 

 

 

> And retraces.

Regret and shame devastating his chest until he has to curl up on the bed and pray, _pray_

_pray pray pray_

_what did I do_

_how do I stop this_

_do I want to stop this_

_do I want to stop this do I want to stop this do I want to stop this_

The bad days doesn’t seem to end. They do, eventually, when he’s emotionally drained and dozes off, _but doesn’t dream._

 

Dreaming implies hope. Keiji remembers well this conversation with his mother, as much as he remembers the following cold stare and the months of distance, which turned into years. It doesn’t really matter if he’s half broken as long as he goes on with life, he just wishes there would have been a different way to learn this except from his parents. Graduate from college, get a respectable job, marry a responsible woman, have children, die.

It’s kind of ironic and funny, he feels a bitter feeling tug at the angles of his mouth, _I get sucked off by a guy and I enjoy it more than all the girls from highscho-_

and then

_no no no no no no_

still he unlocks his phone checks the hour and counts the minutes to meet Koutarou in the gym. He has never lived as slowly as he’s living now.

Probably because Keiji has never had anything to look forward to.

Yet again: can you look forward t-

“KENMgrmflb”

Kenma shoves a foot in Kuroo’s mouth trying to keep him away from his gaming device. It doesn’t work, his friend is already biting one of his toes. He pulls away quickly with a mortified squeak and misses the chance of winning the race.

“I want revenge” he mutters after a few seconds of struggling to bury Kuroo’s smirk under a pillow “and you to wash your mouth I can’t believe you kiss your mother with it”

“I also kiss yours”

Kenma makes a soft hurling noise in response before reaching out for a chip that gets stolen halfway. They’ve been playing games for about four hours now, switching controllers with Keiji every so often, though he rather watches them interact with each other.

He’s deeply grateful Kuroo appeared in his room nearly noon to ask him to hang out at their place. The bad day stopped being so bad when he forced himself to get up to open the door.

“We didn’t see you arse ‘round so we guessed you were ditching. I’m playing Kenma’s new game, wanna join?” Despite the careless, open expression, Kuroo’s deep eyes scans him with enough intensity to make Akaashi feel uncomfortable. It is a lie. Neither of them thinks Keiji is being irresponsible. Before he can come out with an excuse, Kuroo punched his shoulder, playfully. “It’d be fun. Don’t be a party pooper on Saturday Kaashi”.

Kenma was greeting him a few minutes later with a hum, eyes glued on the screen.

“I can’t believe my bestie is a tween who keeps playing Spyro”

“And it’s called Tetsurou Kuroo” replied Kenma, pushing him away, and shoving his hair back to his face to hide a small smile.

Keiji stood there, feeling like an intruder before Kuroo pulled him in, yanking on his arm.

There was a brief silence filled with Kenma’s quiet fidgeting.

“Keiji… have you started the assignment for Monday…?” Kenma asked finally, as Keiji unwrapped his scarf and buried his icy hands between his own thighs.

“I have it half finished. There’s a part of the text I don’t really understand.”

“Same… I’m sure the guy was high when he wrote it…?”

“Are you bitching about someone? Is this the same Kenma Kozume I befriended when he was still eating his snot?”

The blonde ignored the taunt as he continued asking Keiji about the assignment. After ten minutes of slow, calm talk, Keiji realized Kenma pressed the right buttons to make him feel comfortable enough to loose up the tension.

That’s when he pressed his knuckles softly against Kenma’s side, thanking him in silence.

 

As the night goes by, there is something just _right_ in being with them in their dorm. Kuroo’s one of those people who bring the atmosphere with them, being very difficult not to give in to his high spirits and perpetual grin. Kenma just seems the opposite pole of the balance. During the week, Keiji quickly started to recognize Kenma’s uncomfortable stance. The way he shrugs his shoulders a little, gets closer to the screen of his phone and his talk is reduced to an occasional hum to indicate he’s still paying attention.

But, even when the blonde is dashing away from tall Russian men or is trying to become smaller among the multitude, Kuroo pushes a little and Kenma gives back the push, though quieter and less energetic.

It’s almost sign language: Kuroo’s soft teasing as if asking _you okay,_ and Kenma sarcastic reply muffling his _I am._ Years of mutual understanding have asphalted a road that doesn’t need signs; often making him wonder _has there been a time when Kenma didn’t push back?_ Then he looks at Kenma’s band-aids around his small round fingers, notices the incessant tapping of Kuroo’s feet on the floor, the occasional clench of teeth, the constant flickering movements everywhere, and doesn’t really need an answer.

There are days where neither of them talk. Kuroo called them _Kenma days_ on Thursday, _you just have to wait until he feels better to socialize again._ It’s a familiar feeling, that one. But, glancing at them, Keiji also knows Kuroo won’t let Kenma sink in silence too much, he’s already pushing the walls with a soft smile careful in not invading the other’s space, but still close enough as to feel like their whole bodies are in touch. Maybe it is, indeed, like that.

He doesn’t know what is to feel like someone is another extension of your own body and mind, anyway. Kuroo moves around the room like he knows where Kenma’s going to be at any second, takes the decisions without consulting him because he already knows the answer.

 _I am not good at communicating,_ the blonde would whisper, two weeks after this night, implying a non-vocal _so Tetsurou has always been my voice._ It kind of made sense with the solid balance they had. However, sometimes, Keiji finds himself thinking about the understatement in Kenma’s words, the way he averted his pupils and couldn’t really mask the brief grimace of his lips or the sudden tension in his body, as implying _I don’t know why he comes back every morning_ if I’m the one who’s waiting for him in the room.

Keiji takes a time to consider all the options, something between _even strays need to come back to somewhere_ and _sometimes you don’t need a house to feel like home._ His words die in his throat when Kuroo walks in the study room with lazy smile and open expression just the one he wears when his friend is around and Kenma doesn’t even look up to acknowledge him but his whole body is already relaxing and he’s not longer hyper-aware of his surroundings. With Kuroo next to him it just feels _natural_ to forget the world exists.

 _Oh_ he understands then _that’s why Kenma gets lost often._

One of the first conversations they had early the week, was about their decision choosing psychology, instead of anything else. _I think you’d be a good lawyer,_ Kuroo had said, doodling cat faces all over Kenma’s arm absently, _you are the diplomatic type._

_I could say the same, Kuroo-san._

They heard then a very tiny tinkling noise and Kuroo huffed an outraged _hey_ before Keiji could make out the sound was Kenma's laughter.

 _He puts in too much heart,_ was the dry explanation.

_Wouldn’t that be counterproductive for psychology as well?_

_I sort of followed Kenma here,_ Kuroo shrugged it off, as if linking your future to someone wasn’t really the big deal it was. Keiji watched one and the other carefully, noticing the way Kenma’s eyes lighted up when Kuroo was around seemed to say _I’m behind you_

_[as I’ve always been]_

then, who was following who?

A bond like this could be scary, Keiji would think, if he hadn’t something scarier to busy his thoughts with.

 

 

 

>   _Bokuto_.

His mind comes back again and again and again to the owlish guy, specifically to Friday’s afternoon, when Keiji entered in the locker room, freezing, and Koutarou was already there, hesitating touches with warm fingers lingering on Akaashi’s lower back under the clothes until his body started to heat up, _expectantly_. His stomach dropped painfully as Koutarou got closer, slow short steps, tip of the tongue wetting his lips, eyes darting over the hint of skin between the jeans and the jersey of the darkhaired male. It was a hungry stare, but, all of sudden, as he glanced briefly at Keiji’s face, almost self-conscious, all the pieces clicked in his head.

**_I’m so fucked._ **

The sneaky peeks, the shaky fingers, the time expanding to infinite every time they meet, Koutarou’s ears reddening fiercely when minutes later Keiji can’t refrain the _fuck_ that passes through his lips as he’s driving himself deeper in the mouth around his length, the unsettling feeling that he has to do something, just because Koutarou seems to wait for it.

But doesn’t know exactly _what_ until those bright, intense yellow eyes flicker at him sheepishly, Keiji breathes heavily and the guy switches his weight from one leg to another.

_He wants my permission._

But wasn’t it already late to ask?

Is it, really?

Sure, Koutarou stalked him around the campus, but wasn’t Keiji the first one initiating this? He can’t stop recalling the way he’s touched, _cautiously,_ as if Keiji could run away at any moment. Not like he can, really.

But yes, he can.

Guilty washes over him again, cold and heavy, making him pull his legs to his chest and curl up on the mattress, trying to disappear in the space between Kuroo’s body and the wall. Soon enough he’s deciding to leave before his mood gets worse, announcing with a small voice it’s getting later and he has to turn in the assignment tomorrow. 

Kuroo is about to speak when Kenma quietly rests his hand on his thigh as a warning, and with that, both of them wish him a good night.

“We’ll be here tomorrow if you wanna join for another round. We can call it a day today”.

“We can also… eat outside… if you want…?”

Keiji’s lips quirk up in a practiced polite smile before he’s bowing his head lightly and thanking them for taking care of him.

 

 

 

> _cautiously_

and it’s not accurate

but he doesn’t want to think any better word. He doesn’t want to consider maybe Koutarou is just _shy_ but he created all of this because he liked Keiji. (Maybe he just got along with Keiji's uncontrolled hunger). 

(That doesn’t explain why he shoved him aside in their first meeting. Or the coaction, really, or the blowjobs).

Keiji falls on the bed with a weak sigh, exhausted. He has to end this. He has to end thi

_he likes it he likes it he likes it_

The darkness of the room and the silence lulling the building accompany the vivid images that are starting to assault him, the feel of Kouarou’s mouth, his body heath, how Keiji just _presses_ closer.

It’s only because it’s freezing, he tells himself, but it’s a _lie_

_he likes it he likes it he lik_

he likes how Koutarou’s mouth work around him, how incredibly _good_ it feels, the blood boiling in his veins, the brief thought of doing this _somewhere else_ where they can be easily found, just like the first time, Koutarou’s intense gravity dragging him, Keiji’s body arching for more _for something new this time_

it’s Sunday 4 am and he’s hard in his pants.

There’s a long moment of hesitation before Keiji’s palm slides down to stroke himself, _it’s just this time, it’s not my fault, it’s something natural, it’s only an erection, it has nothing to do with Bokuto-san, if it has it’s just understandable, I am not crazy, neither sick, he’s not so bad himself?, this could have happened if we were in the same club some night, he could have shoved me against the wall, pressed closer,_ closer, _closer, all of his body, worked my jea_

his breath gets caught in his throat as he speeds up, burying his face in the pillow.

Koutaoru’s rough palms caressing his hips, his navel, Koutarou kneeling down in front of him, briefly looking up and whispering _you can do it, you can fuck my face_ and Keiji wants, Keiji wants so badl-

Keiji’s coming at the image of Koutarou’s bright yellow eyes, a violent spasm contracting all of his abdomen, his face burning of shame and heat. He's thankful he’s alone in his room and nobody is there to judge him for his perversions, except, of course, himself.

And he does. He does so for the following four hours, when he’s finishing his assignment, when he’s lying on bed again, when he stares at the wall, music loud and screeching in his ears through the headphones, when he gets a text from Kuroo

_yo y’doin aight? We have dinner outside wanna join?_

He wonders _why is he this kind to me I only know them for a few days_ but replies instead _thank you so much Kuroo-san I have yet the assignment to finish._ He’s still blaming himself when he wakes up at the sound of the alarm going off, brushes his teeth, gives up on taming his dense black curls and goes to the first lecture in the morning with a cup of coffee, shirt out of the tight jeans, disheveled hair and eyes of not sleeping enough; he turns his head right and left in search of an already known spiked hair. Koutarou’s not there.

It’s Monday, right? It’s Monday morning and on Mondays they share the first lecture for two hours and a quarter, then they most likely bump shoulders when getting out of the room and concur three minutes later in the stairs. Keiji goes to the café and Koutarou to the second floor, where he has a lecture during approximately one hour and a half. When he joins the café after that, Keiji is leaving to finish the rest of classes of the morning. He only looks at him when he’s sure the guy is not looking, but they will, probably, run into each other at the door of the café.

Keiji freezes in the middle of the room, his skin paler than usual and his stomach writhing painfully, sending a knot up his throat too sudden for Keiji to understand he’s about to hurl the coffee.

It has been only one week but he _knows_ Koutarou’s schedule he has _memorized it._ He’s been counting the moments where they see each other during the day, likely because a) he has tried to feel safe in the knowledge of Bokuto’s schedule, as if getting to know what he’s going to do would provide him some type of control over the situation, b) he has noticed him so he can’t just stop noticing him everywhere, c) he’s _obsessed_

He presses the palms of his hands brutally against his eyes, trying to erase the memories, the thoughts, breath so weak the oxygen barely inflates his lungs. The toilet smells rotten and the nausea grows bigger second by second; swallowing to palliate the stinging of his throat doesn’t work, if so, it only makes him feel more dizzy.

A quick knock on the door startles him.

“I’ll be out in a few minutes” he manages to rasp out, the color running away from his face.  He’s grabbing again the water closet and waiting for the worst.

The knocking on the door persists.

Keiji inhales, exhales, braces himself, forces his trembling legs to support him; who’s the asshole bothering him aren’t the rest of the stalls empty?

He swallows his bad thoughts and the knot in his throat when a hand appears under the door handing him a bottle of water.

…

Akaashi slams the door open, taking aback the guy crouched down outside.

“Bokuto-san”, his voice is hoarse and the alluded flinches, but presses the bottle of water against one of his legs, insistently. The position of his shoulders and the way he’s scratching his fingers of his left hand with his thumb look like he’s feeling guilty. At the lack of response, Koutarou just leaves the bottle on the floor and stands up.

“Thank you” Keiji manages to choke out in the last moment, the door slamming shut as the last words are passing his lips.

 

For the first time in years, Akaashi Keiji wants to go home. Walk away from himself, from his confusing feelings, from everything that is happening. He wants to go back to those days where he could barely get out of bed. Life was easier then.

 

He spends the following three hours outside the building, November’s cold biting through his flesh to his bones.

Keiji has a new word to describe the way Koutarou touches him, now. _Reverential._

Almost four hours later he’s entering in the warmth of the café, sighing the cold out of his body, scanning the people there until he spots what he was looking for and, silently, gets his plate and sits in front of him.

Bokuto Koutarou blinks owlishly, mouth hanging open and spoon immobile half way to his lips.

“Sorry for not greeting you earlier. Good morning, Bokuto-san”.

 

Every time Koutarou drops on his knees, Keiji thinks of religion.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Akaashi: is confused  
> Stray 1: fights kenma  
> Stray 2: adopts akaashi  
> Bokuto: -  
> (um. I tried to avoid my love for Kuroken (kuroo) and failed u see. also i hope this is coherent??? i hope akaashi's obsession is clear and even if the tone of the first chapters is different now... i JUST DUNNO )  
> Thank you to my betas Pixie and Rin, i won't!! ever have enough words to thank you for what you do for me!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> / cautiously peeks in from the corner, cleans the dust and spider webs  
> !!!!!!! You have been very supportive and very, /very/ nice to me with this story, even though I'm a mess with grammar and vocabulary..!!!!!!! / covers face and the story might be displeasing to read too so many trigger warnings...? ;;;;u;;;; I promised myself i would finish this and i will..!! (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و but it would get nowhere without your patience with me so thank you!! SO!! MUCH!!!

 

 

_“Aún quedan vicios por perfeccionar en los días raros."*_

VETUSTA MORLA

 

“Bokuto-san”

Keiji’s voice is soft and warm, barely audible over the volume of a whisper, accompanied by the sneaky touch of two still cold fingers in the corner of a mouth made for smiles, yet always serious. Koutarou breathes in, slowly, and reaches out to slide the two fingers inside his mouth, twirling the tongue around them in a way that feels _too intimate_ for what they are sharing in the place they are doing it. Their relationship- if this can be called such- never implied any hint of intimacy or closeness, just the vulnerability of two strangers sharing something personal.

After the initial rejection, Keiji started to think _it was okay_ like that but _it wasn’t._ He rather doesn’t talk at all but not talking doesn’t feel right, even less now that he can’t pretend he doesn't know the guy kneeling in front of him.

He presses the two fingers down hard in Koutarou’s tongue, slides them further in his throat, listens to him breathe laboriously as he closes his eyes on instinct. There’s something strangely _beautiful_ about this that makes his stomach tangle and his crotch twitch. Keiji’s close to him, close enough as to breathe in the same oxygen as him, distractedly watching the way Koutarou’s lips wrap around his digits. Not so long after he’s taking them out of his mouth and, steadying himself on the guy’s broad shoulders, leads them to his entrance, softly rubbing at it before inserting the first digit. Keiji bites back a heavy moan in the last moment, silently thanking Koutarou for his firm arms around his knees to hold him still. He fingers himself, slowly, accommodating his body to the intrusion until the discomfort fades away and is replaced by _the hunger._ The same hunger that makes him whine between gritted teeth _Bokuto-san Bokuto-san Bokuto-san_ like a plea as it’s not use to keep ignoring Koutarou has been the main source of all his fantasies for the last nights… since Keiji stopped counting the days. _Last nights_ might be lasting for weeks. Reality and fantasy became a confusing, diffuse border. Koutarou took over his head, over his identity, over his life.

There isn’t a day where they don’t share the same space for at least five hours. Koutarou follows him after lectures to the study room and stays with him. He’s at another table but _close enough_ for Keiji’s skin to pickle like it is longing for a warmth it doesn’t know _yet_. Uncomfortable. Gross, pathetic.

Pathetic, pathetic pathetic pathetic pathetic pathetic pathe

“Bokuto-san” says Keiji as he stops writing the same word over and over again on his notes albeit his head hasn’t stopped repeating it. “I’d like to know you better”.

There isn’t any reason behind this but his own stubbornness trying to rationalize what is pure animalism. He only wants to understand better why his body responds to Koutarou’s as if any logistics were a simple matter of magnetism: his body was made to welcome Koutarou’s invasion. That is, pretty much, how it feels at the end. Every remaining of privacy disappears in the presence of those two golden eyes. It doesn’t take long for him to realize Koutarou might not be able to structure his mind based on propositional logic but he doesn’t need it to gaze over Keiji and _read him on instinct_ , and that is, probably, what bothers him the most. The feeling of being exposed in front of him differs to being brutally analyzed by Kuroo’s irritating attentive eyes, though both lead to the same conclusion: Keiji can no longer hide himself under his skin. He is there, sitting in that chair trying to focus on the words he scribbled with smudgy handwriting, purposely ignoring the burn on the back of his neck where Koutarou fixated his pupils and feeling like all the distance he can put between them is not going to be enough to erase the anguish sensation of being _seen through._  

He tells himself he rather be invisible,

 

 

 

> but it’s a lie.

_He likes it._ He likes Koutarou’s _attention on him,_ he likes the feeling that, for once, _he matters to someone_.

And then he hates himself for that.

Probably that’s the reason why he hasn’t stopped this yet, why he goes along with it, why he’s taking steps   _further_ in whatever they have, this is why he is here

now, fingering himself,

rasping out _Bokuto-san_ like he doesn’t know any other word, coming back to touch Koutarou’s curved lips and whisper

_please._

Koutarou’s face flushes all the way down to his chest, quickly wrapping his lips around Keiji’s erection, so eager in pleasing him he almost chokes. Keiji moans then, loud and uninhibited, throwing back his head until it bangs against the wall. He doesn’t care if someone walks in the bathroom and _sees_ them,

 

> _(he’s almost praying it will happen)_

He drives his hips in Koutarou’s mouth deeper and faster, until it’s _not enough_ and he _needs_ to feel less in control, more vulnerable, in absolute disarray. “Bokuto-san” he manages to spit out, gripping at the bicolor strands of hair so tight it must hurt, sliding one leg above Koutarou’s shoulder and the other following right after, until he’s no longer standing on his own. He’s completely being held against the wall he’s _maybe_ trusting Koutarou won’t let him fall

Keiji pushes Koutarou’s head all the way down the length of his member, hearing him choke and swallow around it, eliciting a new rush of adrenaline that makes his whole body start shaking uncontrollably. He wants more he wants everything  he wants to be _consumed_

_end me_

end me end me end me end me and so Koutarou does, bobbing his head faster, digging his fingers in Keiji’s thighs and swallowing around him until Keiji’s strangled yell precedes his climax. He comes so hard deep in Koutarou’s throat he chokes again.

Utter exhaustion rushes over him as the tension and adrenaline fade away, leaving Keiji nothing but a dead weight.

Koutarou hides his sweaty flushed face in the tender flesh of the darkhaired’s thigh, breathing in and out laboriously, gulping harshly, shaking as much as Keiji is.

Guilt immediately triggers a pang of tension in the pit of his stomach. He tries to support his weight on both of his legs again, but he ends up kneeling on the cold floor. With trembling, unsure fingers, Keiji brushes away some strands of hair out of Koutarou’s face, along with some of the tears. It is the least he can do after behaving like an animal. Just some sort of decency to prove himself he’s still a person.

 _I’m sorry_ he wants to say

_but he is not_

and that’s /terrifying/.

He notices Koutarou’s flinch and is about to retrace... when the guy leans, just barely, into the touch. Keiji’s heart is pounding so hard against his ribs he’s afraid it might get out of his chest at any moment.

He holds his breath.

Koutarou’s skin is radiating heat for the flush, kinda wet by the sweat and tears but still soft to the touch

_how long has it been since the last time he did something like this_

He notices then the bulge in Koutarou’s pants. It would be only fair to do him, too, right? It doesn’t feel like he’s there under coercion anymore so probably that’s what social roles establish. He has barely reached his jeans when his hands are brutally slapped away. He gazes up, blinking slowly, just to find Koutarou’s conflicted expression.

“Don’t touch me.”

There’s a heavy pause. Keiji furrows his brows in confusion. It doesn’t make sense it’s a contradiction he was touching him just a second ago just

“ _why_ ”

He already knows he’s not going to get any answer, and he doesn’t. Koutarou wipes his mouth in his tshirt and stands up, hiding his face from him.

“See you tomorrow”, and with that, he leaves, just as all the times before. Keiji grits his teeth and snaps _drama queen_ to the empty cabinets in front of him. It’s always like this, he can’t take more than what Koutarou gives him but he _wants._ He wants to understand _why_ he wants to understand _him_.

 

 

Kuroo greets him in the morning the following day with a quick glance upwards from the position he’s in, nearly in the front of the lecture, a lazy smile and a _yo, you look like shit even more each day._ Kenma kicks him under the table and mushes a _shut up Kuro_ that makes Keiji feel less guilty, less bad, less heavy. They have been away all weekend, back to their native town. Seeing them again set a sense of relief in his chest that made evident, for the first time, the anxiety at the lack of Kuroo and Kenma in his life the past days. Probably because all in all, they are the only ordinary thing Keiji currently has.

And, for once, he’s the one approaching them.

“It’s been quiet without you”, he greets, taking a sit behind them.  

“HA blondie told’ya he’d miss us, such a sap inside.”

“Nobody would miss you”

“I’m hurt”

“Right so you finally will stop running your mouth”

“So sassy”

“So airhead”

“I hate you, treat me to lunch after this hell”

“Great, and no”

“C’mon you _love_ making me happy blondie”

“I don’t”

“You do”

“... I don’t”

“You do.”

Keiji silently listened to their back and forth, watching Kuroo play with Kenma’s hair until Kenma pushed him away just to scoot closer a second later. He doesn’t really remember a time where he’s felt this relaxed around someone. _Easy._

Watching them, being with them is _easy._

Well, after all, he tells himself, they don’t know the monster Akaashi is.

(He

_hopes_

they will never discover it).

 

His track of thoughts quickly drifts away, incapable of maintaining the focus for too long. He’s thinking about Koutarou again. He’s counting by memory the wounds Koutarou has in his fingers, after so much scratching and so much biting (7, 8, 9), he also remembers the times he taps with his fingers on the table (25, 26), switches his weight from one leg to another (13, 14), tugs at his gelled hair (2, 3), the amount of seconds he gets so focused he stops blinking (67, 68), the amount of freckles on his nose (35, 36); two small moles on his right cheekbone, sometimes a fallen eyelash under his eye since he rubs at them too much and too often, the three cups of coffee he had that Friday, just before turning up his radioactive gaze to Keiji.

He sweated, and shivered.

The next minute he was digging his nails deep in Koutarou’s broad shoulders, dragging him closer, closer as to elicit friction between their lower bodies but not _enough_.

“Hey, Kaashi, you listening? So rude”

He’s snapped out of his own mind so abruptly he felt the blush crawl from his neck to his face as if he was just caught thinking of something forbidden. Not so far from reality, indeed. Kuroo raised his eyebrows and wheezed out that horrible laugh of his.

“Isn’t it too early in the morning to sport a hard-on, floozy?”

The embarrassment got worse at the insult.

“Kuro stop messing with Keiji.”

“He deserves it though, he got his breakfast without even looking what was in his plate.”

Kenma smiled quietly at that and once Keiji looked down he found why: his breakfast didn’t make any sense at all. He got butter for toasts but forgot the bread, there was a knife without the apple and his glass for juice was empty. “Will you tell us who’s the fortunate one, you blazing boy?”

“Kuro”

“Is it really my fault Akaashi is so easy to read?”

“Is it someone’s fault you’re a brat...? We don’t care how good you are at figuring out people why don’t you bring me more apple pie instead of talking so much…”

The tall guy stuck his tongue out to which Kenma scrunched up his nose and with that he left for the apple pie.

“He was truly looking forward to see you again”, said the blonde, after a few seconds of typing on his phone.

“It’s boring without both of you here” agreed Keiji. _Boring._ He never thought of an adjective for his college life. More like he believed he could ignore the holes in his existence because they would never be filled, so he would never notice everything he was lacking of. _What a mistake._

“... Is he right?”

“I don’t know. Is he right?” He retorted back. Kenma looked up in confusion. “You _love_ making him happy.”

 

 

(silence)

 

 

Kenma’s eyes were so intense and _threatening_ Keiji wished he could come back to no man’s land. Well. If he was in dangerous territory he might as well be sure he was stepping on a landmine.

“How can it be he hasn’t figured it out yet?”

The blonde pursued his lips and blinked down at his phone.

“Kuro… might not be able to develop romantic feelings towards anyone. His bond to people is intense… that feels enough for him”. Kenma shrugged at that, his voice barely over the volume of a whisper, as if forcing out the words. He looked over his shoulder to spot Kuro’s position, currently entertained talking to a lanky guy with brown hair and incredibly straight nose. He turned back to Keiji and shrugged. “Things are okay the way they are now”.

_Things are okay the way they are now_

_liar_

Keiji pinned his gaze on the table, trying to come up with something that could make Kenma feel better. He didn’t really understand it, though, he never cared about someone as much as to live under constant self-sacrifice. Not like he’s looking forward to it, anyway.

“That’s an admirable fortitude”, he opted to say at the end, because it was true and because Keiji couldn’t empathize with him. He did feel sorry, though. Just how painful can it be to be in love with someone who can’t correlate your feelings...

_just how painful can it be to love someone_

~~just how much can someone change you~~

“Who snuffed it? It stinks to gravestone here”. Kuroo left the apple pie - missing a bite- in front of Kenma and alternated his calculating gaze from one to other. Keiji was about to reply everything was fine when he saw Koutaoru at the entry of the café. His stomach dropped to his feet. He needs to talk to him, to apologize, he did something wrong the other day despite he doesn’t know what, but he truly

he _truly_ does want

to understand Koutarou.

He knows the guy noticed him, too, but doesn’t get closer.

His stomach drops even lower, _maybe with disappointment_

_and it’s so pathetic_

“Isn’t that dude the one that fools ‘round the study room sometimes?”

Keiji paled. Kenma kicked him hard under the table, hard enough to be heard before getting kicked back by an irritated Kuroo.

“You’re on fire today, Kenma”

“So are you, dropping bombs like you get paid for being a shit”

“It was a fucking simple question”

“Maybe I should rip off those old-fashioned bangs so you might use your two eyes to see.” Kuroo seemed to get the hint then, taking a careful look at Keiji.

“Hey, sorry bud. No more questions about why the weirdo is always around you.”

Kenma pushed him out of the chair at the hiss of _you crappy trash cat,_ Kuroo yelped, someone tripped over him and they ended up attracting the whole attention of the café. Keiji remained inexpressive, though under the knot closing tight his throat, he was smiling a little.

 

Increasing to the weight in his chest he’s been feeling all the weekend, he couldn’t spend the whole day with Kuroo and Kenma. He had to attend to that lecture he shared with Koutarou and pretend his notes were more interesting that the outline of Koutarou’s thighs under his sweatpants.

Keiji, really, simply, didn’t understand.

Why were they sitting together? Are they acquaintances what are the borders of their relationship just what the hell are they what does Koutarou need from him how much can Keiji push?

He supposed, if Koutarou kept _coming back to him_ , even after what happened on Friday, he must want to be closer to Keiji.

He started furiously writing all over his notes _stop stop stop stop stop_ stop thinking about him stop thinking about Friday stop remembering it once and again once and again once and again

_just as Koutarou comes back to him_

_once and again once and again_

Keiji bit his lower lip until he tasted oxide. He wetted it a few seconds later, following the shape of Koutarou’s arm against his. The shoulder, the neck, the jaw, the mouth around the pen he’s distractedly chewing on, attention on the blackboard where the professor is writing books and authors. He’s mentally punishing himself for staring but _how could he not._ Keiji can feel his body heating up as he grows hyper aware of Koutarou’s closeness, his mind betraying him when it starts remembering the roughness of those palms on his skin, on his sides, his hips, his thighs, his crotch.

He exhales, slowly, through his nose, trying to look at whatever but the owlish guy. Just _why. When did this turn around, when did the prey start_

 

to hunt down

 

the hunter

 

Every memory he’s been avoiding in the last 38 hours takes brutally over his mind, to the point he has to close his eyes behind his hand and focus on breathing. He gave Koutarou his permission then, in the _please_ he couldn’t really hold back _(he didn’t want to anyway)._ He even said _I’d like to know you better_ , and it was true.

Even though he was the one measuring Koutarou as if he was about to _devour him_ , Akaashi Keiji was in disadvantage.

A sudden grip on his knee startles him. Koutarou is staring at him, thick eyebrows furrowed, eyes vibrant and absorbing.

Keiji licks at his lips, slow, deliberate, and Koutarou follows the movement.

_how further are you going to take this game, Bokuto-san_

He gets his answer when the grip at his knee loosens and the hand starts travelling up his inner thigh. Keiji doesn’t look away. His eyes are locked to Koutarou’s as he digs his nails near his crotch and drags them all the way to the start. The darkhaired parts his lips to let out a silent moan that heats up his skin even more. His insides are tensing with warning and expectation _they are in a room filled with people_

_nothing keiji has ever done is as exciting as this_

_as dangerous as this_

_“_ Bokuto-san” _stop,_ he wants to say, but he only opens his legs wider. Koutarou is so entranced by him he doesn’t even notice someone flickering off the lights. He squeezes his knee, wanders up his flesh just to squeeze again, tighter this time. Keiji’s hips jerk up unintentionally, biting the inside of his cheek to stop any sound from coming out of his mouth.

He’s panting now, mouth open and eyes half-lidded, keeping it as silent as he can albeit his whole body is shivering with the effort of keeping his mouth shut and his hips immobile (shivering with _need)_. He wants to thrust up he wants to meet Koutarou’s hand he wants to tear away his jeans and already damped underwear he wants to

bring him

closer

and

groan directly into his mouth, Koutarou needs to _feel_ he is _burning_ and he’s the only one to blame

 

he who has been in his mind every minute of every day since they met, who kept busying Keiji’s head when he closes his eyes

_and sleeps_

His eyes fall shut when Koutarou palms his crotch. He’s so hard it feels incredibly uncomfortable and kind of painful. Keiji unzips his jeans with stiff fingers and arches his hips off the chair accompanied by a loud sigh when Koutarou finally cups him fully. Even though he still has his boxers on, he can make out the texture of his palm, completely giving in to the pressure he’s applying to the head of his member.

He doesn’t really mind anymore that the room is filled with people (if so, it excites him _more)_ all of them are currently focused on the video being projected on the board. Keiji gives in and starts bucking his hips up and down, matching the constant, rhythmical tugs on his crotch. What’s the worst thing that can happen? Sanction? Expulsion? He would come back home and tell his parents he got expelled because he was making out with a guy in the middle of a lecture filled with people…

He covers his mouth then, maybe because he was panting too hard maybe because he was _smiling_

_what if Koutarou is touching him directly_

_would that make things worse_

He tries to tug down the hem of his boxers insistently before pulling Koutarou’s hand down inside his underwear, forcing his fingers to wrap around the head of his member and squeeze. He rasps out a tiny _hah_ as he throws back his head and closes his eyes, absorbed by the feeling of those long fingers wander along him slowly and progressively.

He doesn’t want Koutarou to stare at him the way he is doing it, he wants to see him falling apart in the same level as Keiji is, in this very moment and in any other, he wants to be in his thoughts, in his dreams, he wants to make him feel exactly _this_ the _burn_ the loss of _everything, of himself_

_he’s so selfish_

Keiji sneaks his free hand under the other’s tshirt and drags his nails from the top to the very base, earning a hiss of pain and a grimace. His length twitches immediately in response and Keiji bucks his hips recklessly, defiant, _demanding,_

He scratches hard, again, and Koutarou sucks in a harsh breath and a quiet curse, boring holes in Keiji’s arrogant expression and getting closer, only to pump him harder.

He loves this.

He lo _ves this he loves this he loves this he loves this he loves this_

He wants _this_ he needs this he needs to dominate Koutarou every piece of him every expression every movement every response he wants to control them he wants to _trigger them he wants to bring Koutarou to his knees he wants to hear him plead he wants he wants he wants he wants he wants_

_selfish selfish selfish_

There’s a girl just two rows under them and Keiji can make out her neck is red like crimson _she’s hearing us she knows what we are doing         turn around watch Bokuto-san do me watch_ me

Koutarou attracts his attention by elbowing him in the side and hissing in his ear _stop with the nails Akaashi_

**Akaashi**

There has to be something open, longing and honest in his expression because one second later Koutarou is lowering his eyelids and grinning slow and promising before whispering

_Akaashi_

Keiji comes so hard his vision blacks out during a few seconds, though he has the enough conscience as to bite hard his hand to stop the high pitched moan from leaving his throat. He barely notices Koutarou wiping his hand in his underwear, or his nervous squirm in the chair, or the way he’s replying to the girl who just turned to them to mind her own business.

His boxers are a mess, he’s a mess, he’s truly

_fucked up_

After two minutes, trying to catch his breath, clutching hard at Koutarou’s forearm, he manages to say:

 _“_ We are having a talk, right now.” The cold and authority in his voice seems to weigh heavy on him, because he’s shrinking in the chair and doesn’t seem willing to move. “Bokuto-san. You are not running away from me, _again”._

“I don-

He’s interrupted by the lights flickering on and the voice of the professor announcing the class is over. Keiji is not longer staring at his face, though, his eyes are fixated on Koutarou’s lap and the _very clear_ outline of his erection under his sweatpants.

 _(He bites at his lips and_ wishes _they were something different)_

“I don’t run away” ends an outraged Koutarou, still not moving.

“Hey guys do you have lesson here now?”

“Yes” lies Keiji, voice calm and quiet despite the urgency he’s feeling.

“I’ll leave the class open then.” They watch as the professor leaves them alone and Keiji silently thanks no one in particular for this chance.

“This situation can’t go on like this, Bokuto-san.”

“Didn’t I do what you wanted?”

Keiji opens his mouth, closes it.

“That’s the point? It’s not _only_ about what _I_ want.”

“It is” contradicts Koutarou, stubborn. There are wrinkles on his forehead, as if he was either holding an inner fight or trying to understand Keiji. Maybe both. He starts picking at his fingers.(**)

The sudden yell startled Keiji as much as it startled Koutarou. They stared at each other intensely during a heavy minute of silence.

_So that’s it_

_it makes sense_

_he’s fucked up by low self-esteem issues_

_haven’t i taken advantage of it_

_didn’t i guess it_

_isn’t this dangerous_

_maybe i will_ break him _if i keep pushing_

 

_How long can you carry on, Bokuto-san?_

 

“So that’s why you were chasing me around the campus.”

Koutarou covered his face. Suddenly, he seemed to shoulder the whole sky, a sky too heavy even for his broad shoulders.

(One of his fingers is bleeding).

“Don’t… get closer to me again, Akaashi. Go away. I’m just the worst, when will i do something fucking right just for once, only this once..

Keiji kept staring at him within the next minutes, blinking slowly, his mind racing, considering all of the guy’s behaviors from this new perspective. _He has low self-esteem issues he didn’t think he was worthy of talking with me or just getting closer_

_so that explains why he gets along with_

 

 

 

> ((my perversions))

 

He asks himself what that uncomfortable feeling washing over him since the depths of his chest is, why he feels so heavy… so much like it started to rain inside him... so **_sad_**        .. maybe

 _sadness_ , not emptiness. He doesn’t like this feeling.

_That’s why he was so eager in pleasing me…       ?_

“You wanted to be useful”

He doesn’t notice he said it out loud until Koutarou presses the palms of his hands hard against his eyeballs and starts shaking.

“I’m disgusting I’m so disgusting you are grossed out i am sorry i didn’t want to i am sorry i am a fucking shit i should disappear i should die everything would be fixed then i want to disappear i want to disappe-

Keiji taps him in the arm with the small box he just took from his bag. He doesn’t say anything, but maybe it’s not necessary either. Koutarou looks down at the small box of bandaids with owl patterns over them and then back at the dark haired. His eyes are bloodshot, making the warm, liquid gold of his irises stand out more than usual.

“... … … why? ”

“To make up for what happened on Friday. You should use them for your fingers...

 

_(this way the wounds might heal)_

 

 

 

 

_(*) Still there are vices to perfect in the odd days._

_(**) there's a picture included here with part of the dialogue, if it doesn't show up please tell me!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> / struggles a lot with english  
> There is just so much Kuroken i want to write so much kuro im sorry but i am not sorry at all o)-(  
> PIXIE AND RIN MY BELOVED AND WONDERFUL STARS THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR KICKING MY ASS THROUGH THIS STORY and for having the patience to reread everything 203948209348 times and listen to my whines and my endless questions about grammar...


End file.
